The Cold
by flirting-with-your-timelord
Summary: A collection of One-Shots, loosely linking. Sherlock gets ill and John has to look after him. Established Johnlock and hinted Mystrade. On hold- may continue later.
1. Infection

221B was quiet - for once without the shrieking melody of the violin or the moans of being constantly bored. The cold wind and frost that covered the world outside was practically invisible from the warm haven that John and Sherlock currently lay in. Blankets strewn everywhere, the heating was up, trying to keep the cold demons out. A fair haired doctor was standing at the counter, using the steam of the kettle to keep him warm, two empty cups stood patiently next to eachother, waiting to be filled with tea.

'John...' A faint sigh came from the right-most door, the distant sound of shuffling being heard from the room

'No Sherlock, you're not in a well enough state to be getting up now. You've got to wait for your fever to come down...' John said impatiently, hearing several sneezes coming from the door.

'John, I want chicken soup' Sherlock mumbled, consonants being muffled by his blocked, red nose.

John felt a chin on his shoulder; thin, clammy arms coming up around his waist. The kettle squealed quietly, almost as if it too was being affected so much by the cold. The hot burst of steam that followed made Sherlock shiver, sneezing lightly into John's shoulder. John gently pushed Sherlock away, huffing as he poured hot water into the mugs.

'Well, tough, you're having tea now. I swear to God, if you make me sick, I won't share your bed for a week.'

'But John, you know chicken soup makes me better...'

Sherlock grumbled, groggily picking up the cup of tea and shuffling over to the sofa. He tucked himself under a few blankets, leaving a noticeably sized John-shaped hole next to him.

'No Sherlock. Chicken soup is the only thing I can get you to eat after a 2 days 'hard-caseing' as you call it. There is a definite difference.'

John sighed, picking up his tea and dropping down onto the sofa, pushing several heavy tomes off the table to rest his feet. Sherlock had fallen ill a few days ago, a first he was like a 5 year old, or at least, more than he usually was. Currently, he was in the needy stage, expecting John to provide him with everything.

He heard soft snores coming from beside him, an arm coming around his waist and holding onto him tight. Peeking to his left, the dark haired detective had his head rested on John's shoulder, one of his legs coming over John's, resting peacefully on his shin. John smiled for a second, kissing Sherlock lightly on the head.

'Come on Mister, time for bed. You don't want to get cramp in your neck again... I remember that day horribly well...'

Sherlock mumbled, some incoherent, the last catching of 'John' on his lips. The army doctor helped him onto his feet, letting his dead weight rest on his side. They stumbled along the hall, one of Sherlock's feet getting caught on that hideous rock doorstop he insisted on having, and pushed the door into Sherlock's room. John had been spending increasing amounts of time in the detective's room; they had taken to sitting in their early in the morning, enjoying the heat when summer had been around.

John lightly dropped the detective onto his double bed, throwing the covers over him lightly, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead. The silence of the room was broken by the light beeping of Johns phone in his pocket, the Mission Impossible theme song playing, suggesting it was Lestrade.

'Probably another case, but Sherlock is really in no fit state to do this one...' John pondered to himself quietly, wandering into the lounge so he didn't disturb the sleeping sociopath.

'John Watson speaking.'

'John! It's Lestrade, we need you and Sherlock to come in, we've got a big case – major profile, could cause a lot of hassle...'

John thought this sounded like someone he knew rather well, rubbing his hand over his face in desperation.

'Put Mycroft on the phone, Greg, I know he's there...'

It was half 8 in the morning, which practically confirmed the suspicions concerning the Inspector and the 'Other Holmes'.

'John. What a surprise it is!' Mycroft said, a hint of anxiety sounding foreign in his voice.

'Enjoyed Greg's place last night then?' John said, the light teasing tone prominent.

He heard some shuffling and light whispering coming from the other end, the voice getting heated, all of which John could hear perfectly over the line.

'John, come to bed!' Sherlock moaned from behind the door. The doctor felt heat run through his cheeks, knowing exactly how that would sounded to Mycroft and Lestrade.

'So, enjoying Sherlock's bed this morning then?' Mycroft said light-heartedly over the phone, hearing Lestrade's chuckle in the background.

'Hmm. Well.. Sherlock's sick, so he's not going to be able to come in. Sorry folks, it's a no this time.'

A surprised sigh came over the phone; John hastily ending the call and getting back to Sherlock, picking up his book and reading glasses on the way. He crept into the room, pulling the thick covers lightly over him, trying not to disturb the sleeping detective. He had clearly just drifted off, his body moving closer to John's back, him becoming the larger spoon.

John abandoned all hope of reading, settling down on his pillow and holding Sherlock's hand, wound protectively around his hip.

The familiar sound of the Mission Impossible theme song played again, this time shorter. John carefully picked up his phone, settling into the now readjusted detective to his side. All that was there was a single line.

'Hope Sherlock isn't too 'sick'.'


	2. Authors Note

**A/N: **Hi everyone, after amazing responses on my question about continuing, I've decided to lengthen this to a multi-chapter story! It will mostly just be fluff pieces between John and Sherlock, with hints of Mystrade. Probably containing illness in each chapter (I just think it's cute when they have to look after eachother!)

I am planning on starting a 221B Drabbles series, just of cute pieces and cases etc. So keep an eye out for that!

Thank you to everyone who replied with their opinions and to everyone who's read this so far.

Enjoy!


	3. Contagious

**Infection**

"Sherlock..." John murmured, his words muffled under the large fluffy blanket he was currently wrapped in. A long body was stretched out beside him on the couch, his dark curly hair holding less flamboyance than it usually did. Sherlock's puffy eyes wandered up to John's face, cringing as the movement caused shivers to send up his spine.

"Yes, John." Sherlock said, wiping his nose with a crumpled tissue, fidgeting round to get a better view of John's face, leaning his head on the army doctor's shoulder.

"I don't believe you got me ill... Who's going to make the chicken soup now..." John mumbled, hitching the blanket up under his chin as he wrapped an arm around his sick partner.

"I would attempt to call Mrs Hudson, but I believe my trachea would not sustain the effort." Sherlock said, his sock clad feet intertwining with Johns.

"If my head wasn't so full of mucus, I would make the connection to what that was..." John said, through a recurrent yawn.

"John... It's my windpipe. You're a doctor; you should know it's not humanely possible to have a 'head full of mucus'. Everyone knows that..."

"Says the person who didn't know the Earth went around the Sun... Go to sleep, my genius detective." John said, his eyes closing and voice getting quieter as he dropped off into a deep, haze filled sleep. While that comment should have gained a more influential reaction from Sherlock, it's excursion would have been too much; instead he snuggled further into John's shoulder, finding his hand under the heavy covering of blanket.

It was 2 hours later when Mrs Hudson came up to find them still in that position, all curled up and sleeping soundly. She had gotten worried after she hadn't heard anything for a few hours. Usually, there would be the violin playing, or general shouting, or the occasional gun shot in her lovely wall.

She left the medicine she'd picked up for Sherlock, not knowing that John had contracted the cold as well. She really didn't know how he put up with the supposed sociopath, who was currently hogging the blanket, leaving John shivering in the cool December air. She grabbed a blanket from the top of John's armchair, laying it over John to keep him warm, then left to them to their slumbers.

A loud, continued shrill which sounded from John's phone caused the coffee table next to the sleeping pair to vibrate. Thus table was currently hosting a very sick consulting detective's foot, which had sought a more comfortable position from the heat of two blankets.

This shrill woke said consulting detective, his wandering over his partner, to try find the coffee table in relation to his body. His hand gripped the phone, his thumb pressing the 'answer' button, as he held it shakily to his ear.

"'Ello..." Sherlock mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes, as he gingerly moved into a sitting position, trying not wake his partner.

"Sherlock? What are you doing answering John's phone?" The too-loud voice of Greg Lestrade bellowed down the phone, as Sherlock put distance between the voice and his pounding head.

"He's busy." Sherlock groaned, feeling the after-effects of the loud voice in his ear. He heard a muffled grunt from John, as Sherlock unfortunately kicked John as he moved off the sofa.

"Oh... I don't really want to think what's going on right now... I'll leave you two to it..." Greg said, hastily pushing down the 'end call' button. Sherlock sighed, rubbing his head as he recalled Greg, knowing he'll go straight to Mycroft with the supposed information that they were sleeping together.

"Greg. Hi. It's me again. You got it wrong, me and John are both ill. And he's sleeping." Sherlock said, his voice edged with annoyance as he tried to explain to his friend. Why did people always get things wrong? Yes, him and John were in a happy relationship, but people didn't need to jump to any conclusions...

"Ah, apologies Sherlock. I didn't cotton on... I thought... Anyway, it doesn't matter what I think.. Clearly you two both aren't going to be able to help out with this case. I'll put Anderson back on the team then..." Greg sighed, his breathing uneven as he nearly gave away his and Mycroft's best kept secret.

"Oh please, Lestrade. Everyone knows you and my brother are clearly getting it off. Honestly, you really don't have to hide it..." Sherlock hung up, hearing the hitched breath of Lestrade as the words sunk in. He turned the phone off, needing peace and quiet as his headache grew worse from the backlit screen.

"Wutss rung?" John said, lifting his head sleepily as he pulled the blanket up over again. His voice was croaky, the speech causing him to go into a full-blown coughing fit.

After he had finished, with Sherlock's help with rubbing his back, they both settled back down, ignorant of the medicine lying on the side of the counter.


	4. Deficiency

**Deficiency**

It a was a cold December morning when John and Sherlock sat in Lestrade's officer, their noses beat red and eyes watery.

"Do you really think you should be here?" Greg said, looking pointedly at their sorry-looking faces.

"Yes!" piped up Sherlock, his voice not holding his usual authority that he so aimed to have.

John let out a short moan as his head felt like it had been hit with a particularly large hammer. While John saw worry in Sherlock's eyes, he knew getting Sherlock back into cases would be the easiest way of getting him back up on his feet. He wouldn't say it out loud, but an ill Sherlock Holmes was not his most loved version of the man supposedly called a psychopath. While Sherlock was fiercely independent yet strangely obedient when he was well, when he was well, that independence fell out the proverbial window – instead, John was faced with a particularly needy man who acted like he was dying from a horrific disease. Of course, he was not dying from said horrific disease – instead, a simple common cold.

Greg's eyes drifted slowly towards John. Although he was not a genius at making sense of people, he could clearly see he was here for Sherlock's benefit only. His hunched figure and bleary eyes held a sense of desperation – he knew Sherlock was a difficult man, and he knew he personally couldn't look after him the way John did, but he sometimes did wonder why the doctor ever puts ups with the ramblings and slightly obsessive antics of the consulting detective.

"John, go home... I can keep Sherlock occupied with a case that has been bugging me for a few days. You clearly need some rest," Greg smiled kindly, opening the door as John slowly got up; like his body was the weight of the world.

"Mmm. Thanks Greg," mumbled John, a heavy look of relief on his face as his mind clearly flashed to the scene of his bed and hot cup of tea.

"Now Sherlock..." Greg's voice drowned out as he turned to talk about the case. His eyes landed on a very still consulting detective, head slightly drooped as it rests on his hand. Greg let out a low chuckle as a light snore arose from the detective's mouth. He gently lowered him to lay on the couch, tucking a pillow under his head.

"Oh, so the pathetic puppy is gone?" Anderson asked a slight grimace present on his face as he looked at the sleeping detective. Ever since Sherlock and John's relationship had come to light, Anderson had constantly been putting them down. Although Greg knew he was generally homophobic, he knew that it was something personal when it came to what the team had universally called 'Johnlock'.

"Oh, go away Anderson," Greg snarled; although he was a good examiner, he knew Sherlock could do a better job and Anderson was starting to get on his nerves... He knew Sally would be up in arms if Greg ever sacked him.

"Not my fault you're keeping a psychopath on your couch..." Anderson muttered, turning away to go pester Sally by the looks of it.

"A highly functioning sociopath..." Lestrade mumbled, using Sherlock's typical catchphrase with Anderson. He would let the ill detective rest for a bit, as he got on with some paperwork.

* * *

Hours later, Greg glanced up at the clock, his strained eyes staring at the hands pointing at half 6. He knew he was going to be late home; he had repeatedly spent nights at the office after his pretty messy separation from his wife. He stood and stretched his legs, carefully not to make too much noise; he really didn't want a grumpy, sleepy detective growling at him... He reached for his phone, ignoring the missed calls from his wife, if he could even call her that, and pressed the call button.

"Hi, John. It's Greg." Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face, trying to get his mind back into running in the real world after spending so much time looking at reports.

"Yes, Sherlock is fine. No, he hasn't done anything wrong, he crashed as soon as you left. He's asleep on the couch... Yep, yep, please come pick him up... I need to play some Black Sabbath and I really don't want him moaning at me... Thanks John, I'll see you in twenty." Greg pushed the end call button as he saw a cat-like stretch come from the detective.

Sherlock currently looked like a small five-year-old, searching out for his mother. His eyes glanced around the room incoherently, blatantly looking out for the short sandy-blonde haired army doctor. His eyes rested on Greg with a sense of disappointment.

"Where's John?" Sherlock's voice was gruff from sleep, the low baritone slightly dampened from his blocked nose.

"Don't worry, he'll be here in a bit. You crashed right after he left, so you didn't miss a lot." Greg said, a kind smile on his face. He knew Sherlock and John had something special; something he admits he never had with his wife – it was clearly evident from her amount of affairs.

"Don't worry Greg, you'll find someone else," Sherlock muttered, his eyes sparkling from the analysis. Greg was a bit put out that he could tell what he was thinking, even though he was pretty sure the detective was bunged up with mucus.

"Thanks Sherlock..." Greg smiled; not many people would count the highly-functioning sociopath; he was one of the few who could actually put up with him for long enough to count him as friend.

As soon as the doctor came through the door, he was pressed into the lean body of the detectives, his arms wrapped tight around his waist. They looked a sorry sight, with bright red noses and put-out looks. There was some quiet mumbling between them, which caused a slight smile on the army doctor's face. Greg did not wish to pry, so his eyes glanced politely round the room, not wanting to interfere.

"Thank you Greg, for looking after him," John said, shaking the inspectors hand with the one he had spare; the other surely yet carefully lodged in Sherlock's hand, shoved deep into his coat pocket.

Greg ignored how John sounded like he was thankful for looking after his son, smiling at the clear domesticity and comfort between the two.

"You'll be back on Monday?" Greg asked, opening the door politely for them.

"Of course!" they both chirped, clearly looking in a better state than they did earlier. None of them noticed the Medical Examiner looking at them through displeased eyes.


	5. Medicine

**Medicine**

* * *

**A/N:**Apologies for the long wait for this, and the shortness of this chapter - I wasn't really sure how to continue it. Thank you to everyone who has read this, it's nearly at 4000 views! :D I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

"For the love of God, Sherlock, take the bloody medicine!" John huffed as he raised the white plastic spoon to the detective's lips. The tall man's lips didn't move, his eyes shining defiantly as he sat in a long staring contest with the offending spoon. A hum was heard from his lips as he shook his head, a silent plea going out to John.

The normally accomplished looking detective looked a sorry sight. His usual dark curly hair was limp and unbrushed, his nose red and his eyes puffy. It had been 2 weeks he had suffered this blasted cold, only a month after the last. An insistent ringing kept sounding in his head, which he painfully tried to ignore. In fairness, he knew it was his fault for the cold remaining; less than a week ago, he had trudged through a river to catch a criminal, he refused to take the medicine, and still was working.

However, today, he was forced to stay at home. His flatmate and partner had detained him, by hiding all the keys and worst of all, hiding his coat and scarf. He felt like a trapped animal. Of course, he loved John, even if he didn't say it, but he had to work. Work was the only thing that kept on falling into the trap that was this awful impediment.

"Sherlock... I'll abstain from you if you don't take this medicine," John murmured, his dark sandy coloured eyebrows formed in a resilient straight line. It had been half an hour, and he was now having to resort to desperate measures.

"What?" Sherlock blurted out, his eyes glancing up to John's in panic. He was met with a steely expression; John really did look pissed off.

"No evening cuddles, no spooning, no reading the paper together in bed. Nothing," John's voice sounded far more confident than he felt. Sheer selfishness pushed doubt in his mind ; he loved being the only one who Sherlock would openly touch, even in front in the Yarders. He never thought he was a possessive man.

Sherlock's lip quivered under the stress of the question. Usually, he could process said question, determine all responses, all answers, all reactions, then respond the right one. However, his mind was clouded with illness, and he knew it was not at full capacity. He'd have to sort out his mind palace once again, it felt all jumbled and out of place.

Sherlock imagined the cold nights away from John; it was nearing -5 every night in London, the cold air whipping through the apartment. His resilience broke down.

John beamed as he saw Sherlock's mouth open a bit, his eyes glancing down to the spoon then back up to John. The doctor pushed the dark red medicine into the detective's mouth, ignoring how beautifully he wrapped his lips around the spoon. Even in illness, John thought Sherlock was beautiful.

A small grimace fluttered over Sherlock's face, his lips rising disdainfully in reaction to the horrible flavour. Sherlock rushed over to the sink beside them, filling a glass and gulping down the water greedily.

John kissed Sherlock briefly on the lips, keeping it short and sweet in case of any lingering infection. Of course, John should know better; he knew it was now very likely he would contract the bacteria residing in Sherlock. But still, John was a possessive man, and pulled Sherlock into his arms, cradling the feverish body. He was just waiting for the cold to set in.


End file.
